


The Minstrel

by Fortem



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 07:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11505054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fortem/pseuds/Fortem
Summary: Each afternoon, a maiden is chosen to be Lord Malfoy's bride. Each morning, she is put to death. Hermione Granger sets out to change it. She didn't plan on the rest of it.





	The Minstrel

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic is loosely inspired by the story of Scheherazade, from One Thousand and One Arabian nights, I was a little reluctant to post this, because far be it from to participate in cultural appropriation or whitewashing, but I was in love with the idea for this fic. So, here's our solution, picture the characters however you want, I'm just writing personality based fics. If you have a problem with this, please just let me know and I will work to find a more satisfying solution.
> 
> Other Disclaimer: the story Hermione tells is called the Fisherman and the Jinni, I got the frame for the story from Wikipedia, though the major of the descriptions and the dialogue are mine.

  _Hermione_

"NO! PLEASE! PLEASE NO!" The screams echoed through the plaza. They were horrifying but what disturbed her more were the townspeople. They just kept walking, going about their merry way. No one so much as paused. Hermione pressed her hand to her mouth as she watched the soldiers drag the maiden from her home, an apartment off of the plaza. She was a noble, spared in the beginning when they believed this would end, when they believed their lord would end this crazed bloodshed. It hasn't stopped.

The pattern was simple. Each morning a maiden was taken and dragged to the palace. Each afternoon, Lord Malfoy wed her. Each evening he took her to bed. And each morning he killed her. It had been three years since the pattern had started, since the first girl was taken. The townsfolk we're getting desperate, practically no virgins were left. It was her father's job to choose, a terrible punishment for some perceived slight. In the beginning, the wealthy had offered extravagant sums to protect their daughters and they had profited. It made Hermione sick then and her stomach turned at the thought even now. Her father had faced the consequences when the common born women of marrying age had been exhausted. He had had to turn on the very merchants who had paid him such extravagant sums. After the first betrayal, all hell broke loose. Some offered to double the sum. Others demanded their money back. Still others tried to kill the man they held responsible even though he was merely the middle man. Hermione's solution stayed the same. Each day since the demand was made, she offered herself. Her father wouldn't hear it. She assured him that she had a plan, that this was not a fool's errand but he wouldn't overcome his fear long enough to even listen.

Hermione closed her book uneasily, caring it close to her chest. The sun shone brightly down on her and the perfect, cloudless blue sky felt more ominous than a storm. It hadn't rained in far too long. Crops were suffering and the people were on edge. They need relief; they needed change. Something had to break.

…

_Draco_

Astoria was a whore. She was a whore who betrayed him. He had married her, loved her, and cared for her. She had fucked him over. Draco's city had been a gift, a present from the Dark Lord for his help during the war. There had only been two rules: keep control and maintain purity of the good families. Astoria had ruined that. She had fucked a servant and gotten pregnant. The paternity was questionable. She had to die.

After that, the Dark Lord had given him an ultimatum. He must take another wife, but if she was unfaithful, his whole family and his entire city would die. He hadn't known what to do. The Dark Lord had imposed the rules on him: one bride a night and in the morning, she'd die. To defy those orders was madness. It came with only one caveat, unless he was certain the bride was worthy, then Draco may spare her until his suspicions began again. The question was: would there ever be a woman that Draco could bet the lives of everyone in his city on?

…

_Hermione_

The guards showed up every morning. The doorman no longer bothered to announce their presence. Each morning, her father handed them a sealed envelope and they left to ruin the girl's life. Each night Hermione fought him to have him write her name on the paper instead of whatever poor, unsuspecting victim was intended as the sacrifice.

He never caved, but eventually, she went around him.

That final night, she lost the argument and her father went to bed. She slid out of bed as soon as she heard his door click shut. He never locked his office at night and it was child's play to steal his ring and make a second envelope. The first one burned beautifully.

The next morning, she had to work to hide her triumphant expression as her father passed off the paper that would seal her fate.

The guards came and took her from the plaza. She went silently; her only plea was that they return her book to her father. It had served her well to this point and now it was her turn.

…

_Draco_

She wasn't like the others. There was something different in her eyes. She lifted her chin, her hands stayed still, and her eyes glimmered with a calm certainty that he had never seen, not even with Astoria. The dress was the same that they used on every girl; the grandmothers with red eyes, the trembling father, and the mournful expressions were all the same, but the bride was different. He didn't normally pay attention to them. He didn't normally pay attention to much of anything these days. It wasn't that he enjoyed this. It wasn't that he wanted to do this. It wasn't his plan to marry, bed, and then stand by and watch women die each morning. It wasn't pleasant knowing that they feared him, that they hated him.

The minister said the words. Draco no longer listened. The minister nodded to him. He said the expected word dryly. The bride said her bit with assurance. The minister nodded again and Draco quickly pressed his lips to the girl's before immediately pulling away. He turned, as did she, and they walked slowly out of the chapel. He very nearly jumped as the girl took his arm. He looked down at her and he noticed for the first time her warm brown eyes and dark lashes.

None of the brides had ever touched him before. They had never initiated anything. It was… startling. She was startling. She waited patiently. The lift of her chin spoke of a polished gentility that he thought the Dark Lord had bred out after decades of fear. Draco set his shoulders back and walked forward. Their steps clicked loudly against the marble floor and the room stayed silent behind them.

…

The smell of the oils and soaps drifted into his room. He waited in his chair by the bed, reading patiently. She could take her time for her last bath, it didn't matter to him. She would have to die by the morning anyways.

"You're nervous Gin," Her soft voice drifted out of the bath. The servant dropped a bottle, the glass clinked on the bathroom tile and he heard her gasp.

"I'm sorry." The poor girl murmured. "You usually tell stories while you bathe."

"Would you like me to tell a story?" His bride murmured soothingly. He had never had a bride who so much as spoke to the servants, let alone in such familiar and gentle terms.

"That would be lovely." The servant murmured, as if she was the lady who needed serving. The bride seemed unfazed by the role reversal and begun her story carefully.

"One day, a fisherman took to the sea as day broke, the sun kissing the waves as it rose. Colors spilled across the water, the most vivid of oranges, the softest of pinks, and most joyful yellows." The bride's voice was soulful and melodic, soothing. "The brilliant rays stung the man's eyes as he was far past his youth. He lowered himself into his boat, the familiar bench creaking as he carefully untied the wooden hull from the dock. The water lapped at the edges, a soothing noise, but the fisherman could not afford to rest. The day had begun. He set out, rowing away from the shore for some time before settling in to begin his work. He dropped his net, watching as it sunk past where he could see. He let it settle before closing it and pulling it up. It was hard, tiring, labor. It rose slowly and the fisherman peered at the contents with confusion. His net contained the remains of a donkey. The fisherman recoiled in horror but then stared in surprise. The donkey showed no sign of the sea, no barnacles or wear. If he hadn't known better he would suspect the beast had died yesterday. The only visible mark was the cut down his belly. Uneasily, he tipped the beast back into the ocean, watching as it sank back into the deep."

She told the story with easy confidence at a slow place. The words were familiar to her but still relayed with enthusiasm. Against his will, Draco's attention drifted from his book, tuning into the strange tale.

"He rowed a few paces away before lowering his net once again. He felt a solid weight and pulled the ropes tight to clinch the net closed for a second time. He raised it slowly and squinted uneasily when once again, his net produced no fish. It looked as if the contents were simply a pitcher. Out of curiosity, he pulled his net into the boat and raised the pitcher. It had miraculously stayed upright for its journey out of the deep and when he pulled it out, soft, dry dirt spilled out into his boat. He jumped, uneasily tossing the pitcher back over the side.

"Once again, he rowed a little farther out to sea and dropped his net. This time, his net was once again empty and only contained a few bits of sparkling pottery. While they may make a sweet gesture for his wife, they wouldn't feed his family. He sighed and looked to the sky, pleading for god's help. He was tired, he couldn't toss many times anymore, not if he wanted to return home before sundown. He groaned as he lowered his net for a fourth and final time. He felt the weight settle into it and he quickly cinched the purse. He struggled to lift the net but sighed as it came into view. The only thing within was a copper, glittering jar. He shrugged, maybe the object would be worth something that would make it all worth it. He gently pulled it into his boat, pulling the jar out from within the netting uneasily, struggling to lift the surprisingly heavy weight. His eyes widened as he saw the cap, it was molded with the seal of Solomon. He gasped, hurrying to try to uncap the mysterious find with his knife.

"With a pop, the cap came loose and the fisherman fell back as a thick plume of red smoke emerged from the jar. He quaked with fear as the smoke began to take shape, forming the indistinct features of a man, except twice as tall and far broader than any man could sustain. The fisherman recognized the creature, even though he had been blessed to never have encountered one before. This was an Infrit: one of the powerful, mystical beings who came to wreak havoc and harm in turn to all those who had the misfortune to stumble into their path. Yet this Infrit paid the fisherman no mind, instead soaring into the clouds and shouting across the seas.

'"Solomon! You coward! Come now and face me!" He roared into the clouds. The fisherman quaked, cowering below as the Infrit finally seemed to take notice of him. "Where is Solomon?" He demanded, circling feverishly. The fisherman sought to make himself a small as possible as he murmured his answer.

'"He's… he's dead." He replied. The Infrit stopped immediately, staring down the old man.

'"For how long?" He demanded, his expression a cold mask.

'"Several centuries… your excellency." The fisherman hesitantly told the creature, not sure what his response would be.

'"Wonderful! That is excellent news!" The Infrit whooped triumphantly, spinning into the sky in a tight spiral before swooping back to the boat. "You may now choose how you will die." He offered the fisherman gleefully.

'"What?" The fisherman gasped, recoiling from the face that now loomed over him. He had done nothing wrong.

'"During my wretched captivity, I vowed certain things for my rescuer. For the first century, I promised to give the man who rescued me everything he could want. For the second, I promised great wealth. For the third, I promised three wishes. But for the fourth, I simply promised a choice about how my liberator would die." The Infrit explained easily, his eyes alight with madness. The fisherman trembled desperate for a solution and just as he thought he would die, one came," His bride paused heavily.

"And?" The servant's voice made Draco jump, his eyes flying open his book falling heavily on the floor; he had never even turned the first page. He cursed under his breath as his bride answered.

"Sorry Gin, the water's cold. Time to get out." She murmured.

"You'll finish tomorrow morning?" The servant asked anxiously.

"Of course," The bride assured her with certainty. Her heard the water slosh as she rose, and then the soft sound of cotton patting against skin. The muffled echo of bare feet padding into his room followed the slick sound of a silk robe sliding against her.

Her curly hair sat plaited behind her in one long braid and then gold robe contrasted with skin that seemed to glow. He cleared his throat uneasily and set his book aside.

"How does the story end?" He demanded before she had even fully entered the room.

"What story?" She asked idly, shucking her robe. He blinked. He had seen dozens upon dozens of women naked but he had never seen a maiden walk with the casual confidence his bride was displaying now.

"The story you were just telling," He clarified, his patience waning rapidly. His bride went to the dresser, dabbing the scented oils that the servants had provided behind her ears.

"Hmm?" She mused quietly, looking at her own reflection idly. She tilted her head, straightening her spine and taking in her frame. She was thin. Not sickly, but thin, as if she had skipped just a few too many meals.

"With the fisherman and the Infrit" He specified again, his irritating dripping into his tone.

"Oh, you were listening?" She asked, looking over her shoulder at him briefly before looking back at her reflection. Her expression wasn't vain; she wasn't looking at herself for the pleasure of it. She was thinking, clearly contemplating something serious. Her mind was too busy to pay him any attention.

"The story?" He repeated pointedly.

"I'd prefer to only tell it once and I did promise Ginny that I'd tell her in the morning" She announced dismissively. His eyes nearly popped out of his head with how wide they became.

"I want to hear the end" He snapped angrily.

"Sorry?" She asked, finally turning to face him with a befuddled expression.

"You know, I could have you killed if you don't tell me." He reminded her tersely. She merely raised one eyebrow.

"Wouldn't you do that anyways?" She answered coolly.

And there it was. The anger. The resentment. He knew it had to be there, but he had never seen it before. The brides had always been too afraid for their anger to show. This bride was far past that.

"You're not going to tell me?" He demanded, aware he sounded like a petulant child.

"In the morning." She repeated calmly; her eyes shone with calm stoicism. He could not threaten her; he could not force her; nothing he could do could change her mind, and he just had to accept that. He didn't like it.

…

_Hermione_

Hermione wished she was braver. Her voice was calm and her hands were still, but she couldn't breathe. She could barely hear the Lord's voice over her heart beat thumping in her ears. She wished she was braver, but she would still be brave enough for this. She had to be.


End file.
